Bright New World
by rabbitwire
Summary: Magnus Bane was never normal. He still clings to memories of his birth, watching as his parents' relief changed to horror. Growing up is even harder than being born, and terror reigns both inside and out. Multi-chaptered fic w/ young Magnus. REVIVED.
1. Birthing

**AN: **Haha, let's see where this goes! I know that younger-Magnus, esp. in a multichaptered fic, isn't exactly mainstream writing for TMI. After all--there won't be any of the other characters! Egads!

Oh, well. I'm going to try it anyway. :P It's a bit of a mighty random thing to embark on. Multichaps are big things, esp. given my tendencies toward sprawling narratives, and that this is really my second day of immersing myself in TMI fanfiction. But, hey, I'll give it a shot. Why not? I considered making the first section its own drabble, but...nah.

Disclaimer: I don't own, yadayada.

Set in Magnus Bane's childhood. Yes, I know that Bane is his last name. There is a reason for his other-surname here, I promise. There are going to be lots and lots of OC's, given the nature of this fic, but trust me, they're going to be legitimate charries, or at least, I'm going to try and make them legitimate charries. Please read and review; I thrive on reviews!

* * *

Magnus opened his eyes to a bright world.

The memory, like all of his memories, would stay with him forever; the sight of his father's grave approval, his mother's sweat-stained relief, both transforming instantly into shock as he blinked at them. It would take him years to understand their revulsion, but he knew it was there, even as a newborn infant, a strange, slimy creature who did not scream, did not wail. Silently, he watched his father's eyes dim, watched the already-distant face fracture into disgust; he heard the stifled cry that rose from his mother's throat. To his father's credit, he had not dropped him; nor had he broken his neck, though in later years, Magnus would wonder why he hadn't bothered.

His early memories, the ones formed days and weeks and months later, were of hushed voices and cool hands, voices that talked to each other but not too him, but his memories of the first night were the clearest. Disgust, pain, horror, stamped onto the face of mother and father alike, each adult wearing their shock differently. Magnus could see it all—could see that bright glow of each twisted line and wrinkle in his father's face, could see the reflections in each bead of sweat on his mother's neck.

He had been born at night, in the dark, and by all rights he should not have been able to see, but Magnus had opened eyes with slit pupils that took in everything, that dilated far wider and longer than those of his parents, and he _saw_.

He heard, too, then and later—heard the pregnant pauses whenever someone glanced at him, the silent anger that boiled in the air of their house, the soft patter of tears shed into bed sheets, and—outside of the house—the quiet whisper of the word _rape_, a word that lashed out at the air and stained it black.

Magnus Alesius would later replay his first few seconds of life, over and over again, against the closed backs of his eyelids, reminding himself that his parents had _intended_ to love him.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

"Magnus," his father said. "Come here."

Magnus leaned the rake against the fence—he had been cleaning the pen—and obeyed. "Yes, Father?"

"We have a visitor coming." Gable nodded toward the horizon. Magnus glanced over; sure enough, there was a man slowly making his way over the crest of the hill. Gable motioned to the half-open bale at his feet; Ranger, the stallion, was contentedly chewing through his share. "Finish mucking the grass, distribute the hay, and then come inside."

"Yes, Father."

Magnus let his eyes linger as Gable let himself out through the gate and limped up the hill to the house. His father. Father. Sometimes it was hard to call him that, in his mind—he never slipped in reality, but still. The word didn't _fit_, much though he would have liked it to. He knew, dimly, that children were supposed to resemble their parents. He had inherited his mother's fine-boned build, the build of a girl, not that of his broad-shouldered father; he had his mother's stringy, dark hair, her fine, thin hands. The maple color of his skin, the cat-slit pupils of his eyes—those were his own, and he would have traded them away in an instant. Of his father, he had nothing, except for his raising.

Mulling things over, thinking--it never led anywhere good, and so he shut his mind off. He gripped the twine that encircled the hay bale and lugged it to the other side of the horse pen, trying not to spill more than was absolutely necessary. Canter's ears were pricked by the time he had navigated the pits and dips of the pen; she ripped a chunk out of the bale with her teeth before he could empty it, regarding him thoughtfully while she ate. Magnus let the rest of the hay drop to the ground and shook his head.

"Stupid horse," he whispered to the mare. "Don't you know that there are more important things to life than food?"

Canter's eyes were broad, black, set in the sides of her head—unremarkable, dull, they stared at him, just as comprehending as the empty twine he held in his hand. He scowled and laid a hand on her face; her skin shivered. He told himself that she did that instinctively—he could have been a fly.

"Look at this," he said. He pressed his thumb against the bottom bone of her eye socket. "Look at you. You with your wide eyes. How do you deal with all of that light?"

Canter jerked her head away from him and snorted, stamping her hoof. Magnus grimaced, cat's eyes flashing. "Fine," he said. "I _know_ that I'm not…not right. You don't have to pull away, too."

Canter stared at him reproachfully. Magnus returned the gesture, added a wrinkling of the nose, and went back to get the rake.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

The adults were gathered in the kitchen. Gable and Father Clarence were seated, talking over their tea; Sandra Alesius was busy at the fireplace. "I thank you for letting me come," Clarence was saying. "I know that times have been…difficult, for your family."

"Times have not been difficult for many years," Gable said. His gravelly voice was softened by the tea. "I ought to be thanking you, Father. I realize that we have been remiss in his education…"

"I would never underestimate the burdens of raising a child," Clarence chided gently. "We will see what we can do for him. How many years has it been?"

"Ten," Gable said grimly. "It will be eleven in…" he hesitated, then finished, "in October. But he does not act his age."

Clarence nodded. "I will look into the matter," he said, "but we ought to be able to find something—"

The door to the house opened with a creak. "Magnus," Gable interrupted, turning. Magnus stood hunched in the doorway, his eyes glittering under a fringe of stringy dark bangs. He swallowed and closed the door behind him.

"Hello, Father. And...Father Clarence." He seized on the name without quite meaning to, plucking it out of the air. It felt as if it belonged to the smiling priest. He hoped that it was the correct one.

Gable raised an eyebrow. "Magnus," he said again. It was a warning, but Magnus just stared at him in bemusement. Gable's fingers tightened around the handle of his mug, and Magnus blinked.

"Oh," he said, quickly, and immediately bent his spine into a rigid bow. "My apologies, Father." He didn't know exactly which man he was addressing.

"None are necessary," Clarence assured—not Magnus—but Gable. He returned his attention to Magnus. "Come here, boy."

Magnus approached cautiously. He knew Father Clarence, sort of—he had seen him from afar, with his plain priest's robes and brittle white hair. Clarence gripped him by the chin and smiled, but Magnus could feel the cool indifference with which the priest's nails dug into his skin. He felt his lips curling. What was he, a cat? He pushed the snarl away, replaced it with his usual mask. It did nothing to distill the resentful anxiety building from having his chin captured, his neck exposed.

_He's a priest. He's not dangerous._

"Look at me," Clarence said. Magnus looked—he couldn't help it—and he could feel his pupils expanding, adjusting to the dim light of the kitchen. Clarence's gray eyes examined Magnus's green-gold ones, measuring, determining. "I don't know if I would go as far as to condemn him," Clarence said, again addressing Gable. Magnus heard the rustle of his mother's skirts as she approached from behind him; the tension flowing from her pores had the same ripe scent as ever. As usual, she did not speak. "But it is a poor marking, that is true." The fingers released their grip on Magnus's chin. Clarence nodded to Gable. "We can talk it over later, if you would like."

Gable had eyes only for the priest; he did not look at his son. "Thank you, Father."

"As I said—it is my duty." Father Clarence rose, his robes hanging from his thin frame like sackcloth. He fixed Magnus with a critical stare. "Behave yourself, boy."

Magnus didn't know where that had come from, but he took the safest way out. "Yes, sir," he said. He tried to put sincerity into it, but he just—couldn't. It didn't _work_.

Clarence touched Sandra's shoulder as he left, nodded again at Gable, and stepped out the door. The quiet snap of its closing marked a resurgence of tension in the household. "To your room, boy," Gable said.

Magnus tried not to run away, but—well, he _walked quickly_, leaving the adults to themselves. Once in his room, he closed the door, leaned against the wall, and stared at the empty air. Sparks tingled at his throat.

_Something bad's on its way_, his mind informed him darkly. Magnus pushed the thought down.

_Everything is going to be _fine.

Somehow, the first voice was much more persuasive.


	2. Cats

Dinner was a silent affair, punctuated by the clacking of wooden spoons and the slow chewing of potato chunks. Magnus took his time with the stew, sucking the nutrients from each mouthful before swallowing. Meals were usually quiet times; there were no gruff orders, no curt commands, and he savored them—it wasn't too often that Gable went for any length of time without snapping at his son. Sandra, of course, rarely said a word while her husband was in the house.

Tonight, however, the traditional quiet was broken by the decisive click of Gable's spoon coming to rest at the bottom of his bowl. Magnus glanced up, stew staining his lips. His fathers face was as sharp and legible as flint; Magnus imagined that he could hear pebbles rattling when Gable cleared his throat. "Boy."

_Boy_. Not _Magnus_, never _son_, only _boy_. Magnus set his own spoon down and met the old farmer's tired eyes, not bothering to deflect his gaze. "Yes, Father?"

"We have something to discuss," Gable said. Magnus turned the words through his head—_discuss _meant that it would be his father talking, and that he would be forced to obey. _Discuss_ meant something unusual, though. _Discuss_ meant that Magnus would have to be _told_ what was happening.

"Does it have to do with Father Clarence?" Magnus ventured. There. He knew that something was coming—let his father think that he had some semblance of a brain.

"It has everything to do with Father Clarence," Gable said. His mouth twisted into a grimace, but Magnus couldn't tell why. "Had you ever met him before?"

Of course he had—he'd seen the priest in town, hadn't he? Magnus was banned by unspoken law from the church itself for reasons that no one had ever bothered to fully explain, but he understood that he was to keep his distance. Nevertheless, the priests always made it a point to extend their generosity. Magnus had always been curious about them—their local priest changed every year or so, to be replaced with yet another kind-faced newcomer. It hadn't taken him too long to figure out that not all of them were as gentle and accepting as they pretended to be, so he had taken to marking them out as soon as they arrived. Clarence had reeked of copper—bright on the surface, but bitter on the tongue.

"Of course I've met him," Magnus said, confused. "He's been here for months."

Gable and Sandra exchanged a glance. Magnus hated it when they did that—it was a purposeful exclusion, as if to underscore his not-belonging. His father's eyes drifted back to Magnus's face, colder than before. "He wishes for you to see him in the church on Friday eve."

Magnus nearly choked. "_What?"_

"You heard me, boy," Gable said. "You're going to church. It's fine time that you received proper instruction."

"But—what about my bible lessons with Mother?" Magnus's head was reeling, though he couldn't quite pinpoint the reason. "Aren't those…"

"Sandra does a fine job," Gable said, "but true teachings must stem from the lips of a priest."

Magnus stared at his mother. She folded her hands in her lap—her thin hands, the palms scrubbed rough by work. "Listen to your father," she said in her sharp, coarse voice. "He's right. It will do you good, Magnus."

Magnus shook his head frantically, not in defiance so much as disbelief. "But—I'm not allowed—"

"For the love of all things holy, boy," Gable growled, "you will do as I say. If I grant you permission, then _you are allowed._ Stop being a spineless fool."

Magnus opened his mouth to protest—didn't Gable know what it would bring?—but a brittle glance from his mother stole his words. "Yessir," Magnus mumbled, shutting his mouth and leaning over his bowl. He let his hair fall over his eyes, forming an oily curtain between himself and his father, himself and the Outside World, hiding behind the flimsy barrier. He picked up his spoon with fumbling hands and continued eating.

No more was said for the remainder of the meal.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

When Magnus woke, his father was already out in the fields. His mother glanced up as he entered the kitchen. "Bread?" she asked.

"Yes, please."

She cut him a slice from the long loaf at the counter and brought it to the table along with the butter. Her black hair was pulled back in a straggly bun, partially hidden under a knotted handkerchief; the tight hairstyle only accented the crow's feet stamped in the corners of her green eyes. Sandra was usually proud, firm, even in her quiet obedience, as if the dirt and grime of her mundane life was transcended by some innate royalty that she kept close to her chest. This morning, though, there was a new weariness in the way she carried herself. "Is something wrong?" he asked. The words flew past his lips as they usually did—thoughtlessly.

His mother set the bread down and turned away, reaching into a cabinet for a cup. "Nothing of your concern," she said crisply. He caught the lilt in her voice and twisted in his chair.

"Mother?" he asked, uncertain. A dim smile pooled across her face, only to wiped clean as soon as he blinked. She filled the cup with water from the jug and placed it on the table next to his bread.

"Your father wishes for the best for all of us, you know," she said disapprovingly. Her words—which might have otherwise been comforting—bit with all of the tenderness of ice. "What have I told you about being careful?"

Magnus drew away from her hand. "I am," he said, exasperated. "I am." He averted his eyes and reached for a knife. "I haven't done anything in—weeks, Mother. I'm not a fool—"

"You did something last night," Sandra said. She slid into the chair next to him at the table. "Don't you remember?"

"No," Magnus said shortly. "I don't." He buttered his bread and delicately tore off a piece with his hands. She shook her head.

"Enough, Magnus. I am not trying to argue." Sandra regarded her son steadily. "Regardless of what lines you did or did not cross last night, you still irked your father."

"I don't care what Gable thinks," he mumbled. "He'll act the same anyway. I don't exist for him."

"Don't be ridiculous; his opinion matters, as you are well aware." She shook her head. "Leave it be, Magnus. We have lessons to take care off today."

Magnus grimaced before placing the bread in his mouth. "Why do you bother?" he asked thickly, speaking through the food.

His mother raised her eyebrows, but she didn't bother reprimanding him for his manners. "Teaching you?"

He chewed through the bread while he muddled through his thoughts. "No. Pretending to be"—he waved his hands, struggling for words—"mute, silent. Spineless. I _know_ that I have to listen to you—and Gable knows that you're always right, and that you're the one really running the house—"

"Your father," she said, her voice brooking no argument, "is the one in charge. I am his aide, his wife, his helpmeet; if you perceive otherwise, I suggest that you polish those glass eyes of yours." She leaned over and placed her thumb on the round curve of skin below his eye. Magnus didn't move. "You see plenty, Magnus, but you can't see everything—you can't _wish_ to see everything; it does no good. Accept things as they are—you were born an abomination, but that does not mean that you cannot be redeemed." She let her hand drop and rose, her skirts swaying as she pushed the chair in. "I'll get the books. Finish your breakfast, yes?"

"Yes'm."

She left, and Magnus laid his palm on the table and stared at it. He clenched his fist; when he reopened it, blue sparks danced like fireflies across his palm. Hurriedly, he closed it again, crushing them, ignoring the electric shock that shivered through his skin. For once, he obeyed, and returned to eating his bread.

If some things had to be accepted as they were, then why couldn't _they_ accept _him_? Magnus had the acceptance of his mother, but only so long as he molded himself to her image; the notion of his father accepting him was far from likely.

In due course, his mother returned, the textbooks held loosely under her arm. They went to work, as always; Magnus busied himself with exercises while she explained the concepts, working steadily through grammar and mathematics. The lessons were one of the few favors she gave to him. He had asked her about it once, and she had replied that a proper education was all that he would ever have. He had turned those words over in his mind for countless nights before realizing what she had meant—his mind was his only beneficial attribute. In the world according to his mother, each and every one of his other characteristics was a handicap.

He bent over his books and went to work.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

After his lesson, he had the day off; his father had hired hands to do the chores during the day, and his mother took care of the housework. Magnus left the house with no real goal in mind; he just needed to get away. It was a ritual of his—his feet would take him where they would, and if he found something interesting, he would stay.

He ended up plodding along the lake path. The heart of the town curved around the east shore of the lake, but the west shore was densely wooded. The west shore, hidden beneath the oak trees, was one of his favorite haunts; it was usually deserted, and the lake path that ran to it also wound past his house.

He heard the boys before he saw them. Magnus froze mid-step, listening to the chatter and laughter winding through the trees; the voices were unfamiliar.

"—can't believe we did it," chirped a voice nervously. "Brilliantly done, Timothy."

Laughter splattered out. "Quite," a new voice drawled. "But it's not done until it's been done. Go on, if you still have the stomach for it."

Magnus set his foot down cautiously and slid into a crouch. At this point, the path slid down the steep hill before twisting back around and meeting up with the water; if he pushed his way to the overhang on the side of the path, he'd be able to see them.

"'Course I do," the first voice protested. "Here, let me at her—"

"Careful," warned a third voice. "She bites, she does."

Magnus carefully crawled off of the path and into the bushes. Dodging branches and twigs without rustling them was a tricky thing. He inched closer until he could see properly, ignoring the uncertain prickling on his arms and neck, and peered through the screen of the leaves. One of them—the one who had warned about biting—was handing over a tabby cat to another boy while a third one, wearing a navy jacket, looked on in apparent amusement. The boy taking the cat had thick gloves on, gloves caked with dirt and muck, and he cradled the animal to his chest, grinning. He had a short face, with a crooked nose and a broad smile, with panicky brown eyes. They were all older than him—fourteen, maybe fifteen.

Realization struck. _Oh, not this—_

"Give me the knife," the cat-holder said. The boy who had originally held the cat handed over a dull knife and crossed his arms. He and the cat-holder both wore the plain clothes of simple farmhands, but he had a bright red length of twine tied around his forearm and pox scars across his cheek. Magnus let his gaze slip to the third boy, the one with the navy jacket and the smooth face. _He_ didn't dress like a farmhand; his dark hair was slick, combed, and he held himself with poise, as if he was separated from the others—he had to be the leader. He toyed with a length of red twine wound between his fingers, but wore none on his arm.

Magnus swallowed and flicked his gaze back to the cat. It stared up at its holder, its green eyes wide as he twirled the knife above its head. The boy looked from the complacent cat to the self-assured boy in the jacket. "So this is all?"

"It will get you the twine," the boy answered.

Magnus felt his stomach twist. This was—he was—was _watching_ this, this demented initiation ritual, huddled on the ground and looking over it like some sort of criminal. He was _watching_.

_I should go back_.

It was the magnetism in the leader's blue eyes that held him there, pinned, like a butterfly to a board.

The boy's bravado wavered before he nodded. "All right," he said. The cat in his hand squalled as he set it on the ground. Ignoring its protests, he pinned it down in the dirt with a knee and one hand; the other hand was busy aiming the knife.

_Ohgoodlordno—_

The cat's eyes were yellow—just like his, just like his, yellow and wide with the pupils had shrunken to pinpoints while Magnus's were dilating, dilating, straining to see and not wanting to watch and not being able to look away. The knife came down square between the cat's eyes, hilt-first, and then it was yowling as it realized the danger, thrashing, too late, _you stupid animal_, and then the boy had the knife flipped around and the thing's throat was _cut_. Its scream warbled a bit, high-pitched and miserable, before it gurgled into silence, dead and bleeding and twitching, just a little. Its eyes were still open.

_Ohpleaseno—I did not just see that, I did not, I did not…_

The fire was back, as always, and through his skin he could see the blue sparks burning beneath the surface, begging to be let out. His arms gave out and he pressed his forehead to the dirt, wondering, fighting back the flames, tamping down the bile. The stench of blood sang into his nostrils, rising from the cat's corpse.

"Good job," said the blue-eyed boy. The killer, the initiate, reached out his arm, and the leader tied the red twine around his forearm in a firm knot. He admired his handiwork for a moment before looking at the dead cat's body distastefully. It was seeping blood. "Leave it in town," he said, indicating the corpse with his foot. Magnus's throat twitched. "I'll go up first. Wait at least a half-hour, understood?"

The other two nodded. "Sure, Leander," the one with the pox scars said.

Leander smiled at them—it was an open smile, warm and affectionate and a bit condescending, and it left Magnus with chills—and turned up the path, out of Magnus's sight.

_The path._ Magnus cursed inwardly and tried to settle deeper into the bushes. He needed to obscure himself from the path _and_ from the lakeshore below. If Leander didn't look his way, he'd be all right. He'd be all right. He flattened himself into the dirt; in the distance, he heard Leander treading on the dry pine shafts, presumably turning the corner onto the uphill segment of the path. He was approaching.

Booted feet bloomed in his vision, and he prayed fiercely for them to keep on walking by, for the leaves of the bush to keep him hidden. They did, at first, and then the boots backtracked, and Leander bent down abruptly and stared him in the face.

Magnus stared back, too stunned and stupid to do anything else. Leander had a thoughtful face—scholarly, clean, with a fine-tipped nose and high cheekbones, and twin blue eyes that regarded him with the same frank amusement with which they had looked at the cat. Magnus knew what _he_ looked like, cowering in the bushes with dirt covering his front; more importantly, he knew what his eyes looked like—golden, wild with shock and fear and maybe a few other things, with slit pupils that were widening in the dim light of his hiding spot.

Leander's mouth twisted into a smile. He pressed a finger to his lips and offered a hand to Magnus. Magnus stared at the outstretched fingers, swallowed, and accepted the offering, trying to make as little noise as possible as he untangled himself from the bush and lurched to his feet. Leander pulled him forward as he rose, clutched him by the wrist, and leaned in to whisper _follow me_ before letting go and resuming his walk up the path.

Magnus looked back down at the other boys, obscured once again by the foliage; they were facing the lake, the cat forgotten by their side. He hurried after Leander, wondering what this was about—he hadn't _looked_ mad, but anything was possible, and what was to stop him from thrashing Magnus, then and there?

The cat's blood still reeked in his nostrils.

Magnus hovered a few feet behind Leander, uncertainly following in the confident boy's footsteps. After a few minutes, they reached the end of the woods, where the path flowed out through clear farmland.

Leander turned and smiled at him. Magnus stopped and flicked his eyes to the ground, shoving his hands into his breeches pockets. "You saw, didn't you?" Leander asked.

Magnus considered lying, decided that it wasn't worth it, and nodded.

"I heard you," Leander said. "Before we started. Why did you stay?"

It was asked nonchalantly, as if he was simply asking for directions. Magnus shook his head. "I don't know," he mumbled.

"Don't act like that," Leander said sharply. "I'm not out to hurt you, you know."

Magnus jerked his gaze upward, watching the other's face warily. "Act like what?"

"As if I'm going to hit you." Leander grinned down at him—the years of difference between them gave him a good half-foot of advantage. "What, you worried over that stupid cat? Am I scary?"

"No."

"It's just a test," Leander said. His eyes were like the warped mirrors that peddlers sold—they tossed Magnus's face back at him, mockingly distorting his features and grinning at his discomfort. "We test our friends—don't you know that? Haven't you ever wanted in on a group?"

Magnus shrugged; Leander raised an eyebrow. "What, never?" he said. "Why not?"

"I don't get into town often," Magnus said quietly.

"Don't you go to school?"

Magnus shook his head. "I'm not allowed."

Leander's smile stretched. "Not allowed! Oh, I'll bet that I know who you are. You're Magnus, aren't you?"

"I—"

"Oh, there's no use hiding it now," Leander said, his blue eyes dancing. "Look, I've heard any number of idiots muttering about you, you with your _demon's eyes_; you're the only one around here who fits that description. I never thought that you were real! So, tell me, little demon child—do you murder mummies and children in their beds?"

Magnus returned to staring firmly at his shoes. "You didn't mention it when you first saw me," he muttered.

"Of course I didn't. Do you think that I'm really that foolish, or that pious? You're no demon—you're a scared child, just like those two were." Leander waved his hand impatiently towards the lake. Magnus looked up hesitantly; Leander was still beaming. "Here, Magnus—why don't we walk into town? My name is Leander, though you probably overheard that much. The idiots were Timothy and Harvey."

Magnus ducked his head and fell into step with the older boy. Leander kept talking. "So," he said lightly, "do you have your weekdays off, normally?"

"I…yes. My father has hired hands, and my lessons are usually finished by lunch…"

"Ah, lessons." Leander laughed. "We have school, but I'm feeling poorly today, so I'm home sick. The same may be said of Timothy and Harvey. You should visit us some day. Do you have your Saturdays to yourself as well?"

"Sometimes," Magnus said reluctantly. Leander nodded encouragingly.

"Meet me in town at noon next Saturday," he said to Magnus. "Behind the schoolhouse. You know where that is?"

"Yes."

It didn't take them too long to reach the fork in the path; the left branch led off to the town, while the right led to the outskirts—Gable's farm was to the right. Leander laid a hand on Magnus's shoulder; the younger boy flinched.

"None of that, now," Leander scolded. "I'm your friend, Magnus—or at least, I intend to be."

Magnus slipped out of the other's grip. "I should go," he said.

"As you say." Leander let his hand fall. "Remember, though—behind the schoolhouse at noon on Saturday."

Magnus mumbled something noncommittal and forced himself down the path, quickly rounding the first bend and leaving himself alone between the rows of crops and wild grasses. The abrupt silence—a silence that he was so used to, a silence that was his ordinary, familiar companion and friend—felt odd, out of place, compared with Leander's gently lilting words.

He overlaid the image of the bleeding cat with Leander's eyes, compared the creature's dying shrieks with the sociable mockery of Leander's voice, and his gut seized. He stumbled to the side of the road and retched, quaking, as goose bumps bubbled over his skin.

_I intend to be your friend_.

He couldn't shake the picture of Leander's eyes as the boy had killed the cat—detached, faintly amused. The cat hadn't been alive for him, but then again, neither had the boys. Magnus knew enough to recognize dismissive condescension when he saw it. He also knew the hunger he had seen in Leander's eyes, blue and gaping, as the cat had hissed and twisted, trying to get away, pinned under Harvey's knee as the boy had slashed its throat open.

Magnus clenched his eyes shut, forcing the images away. Why was Leander suddenly interested in him—Magnus, a boy he had found wallowing in terror in the dirt?

The sun was sinking. Magnus rose to his feet, a little shakily, and started walking again. Today was Tuesday; he had some time left between now, Father Clarence, and the strange boy with the luminous eyes and the bitter tongue. He had time.

He needed it.

-

* * *

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* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, I guess that eleven days isn't too shabby for an update. What do y'all think so far? I realize that he's not quite the glittery, glamorous Magnus that we're all used to, but he has three hundred long years to grow into that. Leander, actually, is going to play a role in getting our young friend to...ah...come out his shell a bit. I'm working on crafting Leander's background and all of that...if anyone's ever read Demian, I believe that the titular character there is going to play a role as far as character development goes, though Leander is no great and well-meaning philosopher...oh, no. At any rate, I'm looking forward to having Magnus play with his magic a bit in later chapters. I don't know how long this is going to be, so "later chapters" could be anywhere from the next one to Chapter Eight. I'm just unpredictable like that.

Poor kitty. :( I guess that I have to raise the rating to T now!

Please read and review. I love reviews! ^__^ A shout-out thank you to 1) Loki, for getting me on this track to begin with, and 2) to BlindlyArticulate, since you left me no contact. D: But thank you all the same!

_Dated Jan. 30th, 2009._


	3. Church

Father Clarence's study was warm—there was a fire burning in the grate, a luxury that Magnus was unaccustomed to. The smoke rising from the seething flames, coupled with the late hour, made it a struggle to keep his eyes open.

"Again," Clarence said from behind his desk. His gray eyes were brittle and dark, like fine-honed iron; the crown of his forehead glistened with sweat. Whenever Magnus spoke, the clergyman closed his eyes, and the puckering of his clenched brow reminded Magnus of bunched fabric.

Magnus licked his lips and tried to read the passage again. "In all circumstances," he read, forcing his tongue around the words as his voice cracked, "take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming darts of the evil one." He swallowed; the heat was oppressive, and his woolen collar was itching at his throat. "And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of—of the Spirit, which is the word of—the word of…"

"The word of God," Clarence said. "The word of _God_. Speak it, boy."

Magnus tried. "The word of God," he repeated dutifully, forcing the words across his swollen tongue. Pain lanced through his throat. He covered his mouth, coughing, as pain strummed across his vocal cords.

"Again," Clarence ordered. "The word of God."

Magnus cleared his throat; his vision swam. "The word of God," he croaked, baffled. He flinched; the instant the words spluttered into the air, his throat burned, as if he had swallowed acid.

"That's enough," Clarence said abruptly. "Let him be, Nathaniel."

The burning subsided abruptly, leaving a raw ache in its place. Magnus dug his fingers into his kneecaps and bent over, coughing, breaking away from the Father's gaze. His head swam. His throat felt like someone had peeled away its tender lining, leaving raw and bloody flesh exposed to the smoky air. Magnus coughed again—the force of it wracked his body, sent his fingers digging deeper into his kneecaps.

"Water?"

Magnus seized the mug without thinking, greedily pouring its contents down his throat. The ache receded somewhat, but not nearly enough. He laced his fingers around its girth and looked up, still struggling for breath. Father Clarence was regarding him with kindly eyes.

"My boy," he said, "you did well. Very well." Magnus would have responded, but his throat burned as soon as he twitched his jaw.

"He's no changeling," a new voice announced from behind him. "My work is done."

Clarence chuckled and rose, stepping out from behind his desk; Magnus twisted in his chair. Seeing his shock, Clarence laid a thin hand on the young boy's shoulder. "Magnus," he said, "meet Nathaniel."

Nathaniel tipped his head to the side in acknowledgement. He had angular features and deep-set, fierce blue eyes framed by blonde bangs; his clothing was fastidiously neat. There was an aged look in his firm features, and a dignity that surpassed even the Father's—the man must have been twoscore years old, at least.

Magnus's eyebrows snapped together in surprise as the fading pain in his throat was replaced by a tart taste on his tongue. _Magic._ And Nathaniel was undeniably the source.

"He's fine," Nathaniel said, addressing Clarence. "You were right. Do you want me to…?"

"It's not necessary. Do you think that he stands a chance?"

Magnus scowled. He was accustomed to being talked about as if he wasn't present, but that didn't mean that he appreciated it. He opened his mouth to interject, only to be cut short by the pain still present in his throat. _Damn it._

"I'm not a theologian, Father," Nathaniel said, "but he's certainly human enough, if that's what you're asking." He shrugged, ignoring Magnus's glare. "I'll speak with you later."

"God guide your steps, my friend."

Nathaniel's mouth twisted in a wry line and then—he vanished. He didn't move—didn't signal—didn't do anything, just…vanished, as quickly as he had appeared. Magnus's eyes narrowed. The tart taste of magic stung his tongue.

"Do excuse Nathaniel," Father Clarence said. "He's a demon hunter from the city, you see—he was in the area, and I asked him if he could take a look at you. You passed his examination, by the way. He believes that he can suppress your oddities, Magnus. You could lead a normal life."

There was a fevered quality to Clarence's pale eyes as he spoke, but Magnus wasn't paying attention to him. He sank slowly back into his chair, and Clarence poured him another glass of water as he explained how the test had worked—a true demon would not have been affected by Nathaniel's magic, would have instinctively rebelled against his attempts. "Not all magic is witchcraft," Clarence explained, "despite public opinion to the contrary. Nathaniel is an ally of the Church." He ended up giving Magnus a letter for his parents, telling him to come back next week at the same time. Magnus stumbled out into the street, his mind churning, only vaguely aware of his surroundings.

Nathaniel—with his different face, different dress, Nathaniel, the demon slayer from the city—

Nathaniel had Leander's eyes.

* * *

Yes, I'd clearly abandoned this fic before it really started, but I'm giving a try again. I'm sorry that this chapter is so short. I should have the fourth one up before the weekend is over! :)

And yes, there will be lots and lots of OC's here. Well, what did you expect? Nobody's born yet!


	4. Horsetalk

His throat hadn't quite recovered by the time he arrived home. His mother had looked at him in absolute shock—apparently the burning sensation had been more than illusion, because he had an angry patch of red skin blooming at his throat. Magnus had given them Clarence's letter, drawn another mug of water from their pump, and collapsed in his bed.

When he woke up the next day, it was already noon; his mother glanced up as he padded into the kitchen.

"I gave you a draught last night," she explained. "Clarence's letter said that you had worn your throat out. A poor explanation if I ever heard one. I don't know what he did to you, son, but—are you faring well enough?"

"Yes'm," Magnus said. His own voice startled him—it barely qualified as a croak. He cleared his throat. "I'm better."

"Well." Sandra pursed her lips. "Gable's given you the day off as a reward, Magnus. You pleased Father Clarence, though by the good Lord's name, I know not how. What did you do?"

"I read for him."

"Is that all?" his mother marveled. "Well, if it pleases the Father, so much the better. You always were a bright lad, you know."

Magnus blinked at the offhanded compliment, hesitated, and then ducked his head. He needed to get breakfast.

He didn't notice the shadow of skepticism hovering in his mother's eyes.

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He didn't tell his parents where he was going; he just asked permission to take Canter for a trot. Gable waved his assent, splashed some river water on his face, and went back to overseeing his hands, his son already forgotten. Magnus went to get the bridle.

Technically speaking, he didn't _need_ to ride into town. Last night, he had walked. But Magnus knew better than to trust to his feet—there would always be times when he had to run, always be times when he wasn't faster than his aggressors.

Magnus took the bridle from its hook in the shed and walked down to the horses' pen. Last time he had been in town—discounting the past night—had been about a month past. He had been riding Canter then, too, and they had nearly plowed into a boys' marble ring on the outskirts of town. The boys hadn't been pleased. They dove out of the way, but when he slowed his mount, they burst from the bushes, shouting obscenities and scrambling to grab their marbles out of the dirt circle.

The slingshots had come out. Canter had had raised bruises on her white coat for a week afterward. Magnus had nearly lost his eye. But more worrisome than those injuries was what had nearly happened to the boys. Magnus didn't trust himself with his abilities, not when there were flying pebbles and catcalls staining the air.

He shoved open the pen door with his foot and clucked his tongue. "Canter," he called. "Come on. Town trip."

Canter's ears swiveled toward him. She shook her head, as if to say, _no_, I'll stay in the shade of the tree, thanks very much.

Magnus sighed, crossed the pen, and slipped the bridle over her head. She accepted the bit without protest, though her eyes were just as murkily reproachful as ever. He spread his palms against her back, heaved, and swung himself onto her broad back.

No, it wouldn't do to invite trouble and let his magic get the better of him. After last night's bizarreness, he needed to keep it tightly controlled, if only so that he could figure out what the Father was planning.

Magnus kneed the mare into a walk and reached down to shut the gate as they moved past. He didn't need to worry about Canter—surly she might have been, but she wasn't willing to incur the ire of her masters.

-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Welcome to my merry band," Leander declared, sweeping his arms wide. Magnus raised an eyebrow. The older boy's "merry band" consisted of the two boys from the lake and a boy he didn't know, with a crooked nose and wild green eyes. They all had red twine tied around their arms. They boys regarded Magnus coldly.

"The demon?" the ones with the pox scars asked incredulously. "What's he doin' here, Leander?"

"I invited him, naturally," Leander said, spinning on his heel to address the malcontent. He grinned at him—well, it was more of a leer, Magnus supposed. The kind of contemplating leer a cat gave to a mouse.

The group subtly angled themselves towards Leander, he noticed, as if they were vines straining toward the sun. Hungry, all of them. They _wanted_ something.

"This is Timothy," Leander said, gesturing to the boy who had killed the cat. "Harvey is our pretty-faced friend"—here he motioned to the boy with the pox scars who had been at the lake—"and this is Anton."

The green-eyed boy nodded to Magnus. Of Leander's three underlings, he seemed the most confident. "You finally get away from that crackbrained father of yours, then?"

Magnus felt his fingers tighten around the reins bunched in his hands. Behind him, Canter pawed at the ground impatiently. "Crackbrained?"

"Religious fanatic, is all," Anton said. "My parents aren't too keen on that sort of thing—dunno why. But your pap was in town the other day making a right row about something or other. One of the teacher's lessons' accuracy, I think. Legend 'as it that he keeps you under lock 'n key all day."

"Reckon that whenever Leander wants something, it gets done," Harvey said with a laugh. Timothy and Anton grinned. Magnus looked at Leander, confused.

"Oh, it's nothing," the Leander told him airily. "I've just got an affinity for the world. That's all, honestly. This lot seems to think that there's more to it than that." He smiled at them. "Time for planning, then, eh?" Leander turned to Magnus. "We're heading down to the lake, if you'd care to join us."

"I don't have anything better to do," Magnus said with a shrug. He gestured to the mare. "What should I do with her?"

Leander considered. "Walk with us," he said finally. "Taking a pack of horses out to ride would be more noticeable. She won't mind her bit?"

"She'll be fine."

Leander nodded. "Well," he said, "come on."

The boys chattered as they walked, referencing people and places and events that Magnus had never heard of. The cat-eyed boy walked behind them, winding his fingers in the leather of Canter's reins. The mare's eye swiveled to look at him, but if she disproved of their afternoon jaunt she didn't give sign.

Leander was in front, of course. Magnus tried not to admire the cut of his navy jacket, the way he held his head, the posture that managed to be both a slouch and a proud stance. Magnus licked his lips. The man from Clarence's study had had the same look of natural, indolent poise. How were the two connected?

He was intrigued despite himself. Uncertainty was normal, natural, as much a part of his life as the sun's daily trek across the sky. But this was a different kind of uncertainty. Nathaniel had said that Magnus could be redeemed. Made normal. Leander was charismatic and cruel—Magnus wasn't deceiving himself on that last count—but they shared a certain otherworldliness.

"Here we are," Leander said.

They walked down to the water's edge. Images of the dead cat rose in Magnus's mind, and he shuddered. But he'd be safe, even if they tried to jump him. He had Canter, and if it came down to it, his own defenses would kick in.

"Now," Leander continued, "I promised you boys a show, right?"

Anton bared his teeth in a grin. "That's right," he said. He turned from the group and squatted by the water's edge. "What're you calling today, Leander?"

"Don't ruin the surprise." Leander bent down and bunched up the legs of his slacks before wading ankle-deep into the lake. "Sit down, all of you."

Magnus cautiously took a seat next to Anton. His mare snorted and butted the back of his neck, then pulled away, towards the grass. Magnus let her, bunching up the reins just in case she yanked too hard.

Leander twisted his neck and glanced over his shoulder. "You have to keep quiet about this," he said to Magnus. "You understand?"

"Sure," Magnus said.

Leander nodded and turned back to the lake. He pulled a knife from his belt, sliced the pad of his thumb, and dipped his fingers into the water. Magnus felt his pupils narrow in the sunlight. Faint wisps of red swirled to the lake's surface, mixing with the brackish water.

And then Leander spoke.

It was in a strange tongue, one that Magnus didn't recognize from his studies. It wasn't English or Latin, certainly, and he'd never heard anything like it. Something twitched, deep in his chest. Magnus recognized the pull and stifled a moan. It was his magic, stirring to life in response to Leander's words.

_Come._

His lips moved silently, and Magnus knew with a strong and sudden conviction that that was what Leander had said. Blue sparks crawled across his palms and he clenched them tight, willing the magic away.

Something was stirring in the lake. At first Magnus thought that it was a clump of rushes, drifting closer to the shore. Then the rushes started moving faster, sliding towards Leander too quickly to be propelled by the wind. It rose, revealing tough skin mottled like the surface of a log, tapered in a long, narrow shape. Beside him, Timothy gasped as the true being emerged.

It was a kelpie. Magnus recognized the horselike creature instantly from the book of fey tales he had in his room. Everything fit. The slimy plant life instead of the mane, the deep-set, glittering eyes, the majestic, lethal movements as it swam closer to the shore…

It rose fully from the water. Bracken poured off of its bony back, running in rivulets down a coat choked with algae and slime. Its body shimmered emerald-black. "Who calls me?" it asked. Magnus's eyelids fluttered. It had a soft, slippery voice, velvet-smooth and deceptive. It looked at Magnus. "Perhaps the cat-eyed child?"

"No." Leander spoke, lifting his hand from the water and scowling at the horse. "It was I."

Something jerked at Magnus's hand. Startled, he looked up. Canter was straining the reins, trying to back away from the lake. Her eyes were wild, black with fear. The kelpie's lips pulled back in a sneer.

"Has my summoner brought me a treat to tempt my appetite?" it asked.

"No," Leander said again. "It's not yours."

Canter whinnied shrilly, and Magnus gritted his teeth as she yanked at his hand again. He let go of the reins. The mare whimpered and backed up a few steps before turning and sprinting up the path.

The kelpie's hollow eye tracked her path. "A pity," it purred.

"My request, kelpie," Leander began. "I wish your permission to…bring a treat, as you said."

"You would not need my permission for that. You wish something more, yes?" The kelpie bared its teeth. "Name it quickly, before I tire of you. You are all so deliciously young…so pleasant on the eyes. I doubt not that you would be pleasanter still if you joined me in my lake."

"I need you to teach me a certain spell," Leander said. "How to alter memories."

"Such difficult, dangerous magic for a boy your age." The kelpie began circling Leander. Its hooves squelched in the mud. "And for what gain? A human, in the future? Not just any will do." It looked at the four boys huddled on the shoreline. "What are they here for?"

"My friends," Leander said. "They wished merely to witness your grace."

Magnus choked back a laugh. He could smell Timothy's fear from here. Harvey wasn't much better. Only Anton was curiously calm, as though he'd been through this before.

"Give me the cat-eyed one," the kelpie said. "Let him ride on my back, and I will teach you the magic."

"I won't ride." The words leaped to Magnus's tongue before he could be surprised. "I'm smarter than that."

Leander cast him a warning look. The kelpie threw back its head and whinnied. "Of course you are," it said. It turned back to Leander. "Very well, little one. I offer you a deal. I shall teach you your memory spell…but only if I may begin to instruct your intelligent friend in the true workings of magic."

Leander's eyes flickered from Magnus to the kelpie. They were hard and impenetrable, like deep, cerulean ice.

"Why?" he asked.

"Magic flows through his veins. If left unchecked, it is a threat to me, and to you as well. I do this for both our sakes. What is his name?"

"Magnus," Leander said.

"His _full_ name," the kelpie hissed.

"Magnus Alesius."

The kelpie shook its head. Bracken splattered over Leander's navy jacket. "That is not his true name. Never mind; I shall divine it later. Now is not the time to teach." It turned. "Both of you shall come here at midnight, whatever day you chose. Bring no _friends_ with you that day."

"Thank you," Leander said.

The kelpie spun and lunged at Leander. The boy stumbled back. Iron teeth clamped down around his finger; a gray tongue swirled before letting go. The kelpie chortled.

"Your blood is a fine treat," it said. "I expect more in the future, little one."

The kelpie turned again and waded back into the lake, sinking down until the surface was once again innocent and undisturbed. Magnus exhaled a breath he hadn't been trying to hold. His skin was tingling again. The sensation of raw power rippled across his arms and into his palms, pooling, pooling—

He cut it off and shivered. The kelpie was dangerous.

"Interesting." Leander walked back onto dry land and fixed Magnus with a considering look. "So, are you up for it, Magnus?"

Magnus licked his lips. He could feel the other boys staring at his back.

"I am," he said.

Yes, the kelpie was dangerous. But—so was his magic. He _knew_ that, knew it as surely as he knew that he was an abomination, and if there was a way to control it, he needed to learn. And yet…

The twisted knot in his gut grumbled that that was a rationalization.

Leander looked cold, distant. "Come on," he said to the boys. "Let's go back to town. I need to explain the plan."

Magnus stood. Never before had he felt so immensely, impossibly unsafe.


End file.
